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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26039575">At Her Majesty's Pleasure</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984'>Miri1984</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Multi, Pre-Campaign, nothing explicit as yet but there will probably be dragon fucking at some point</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:35:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,085</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26039575</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>At the age of 24, Oscar Wilde left Oxford with two firsts, a promising career ahead of him as a journalist and playwright, and a hankering to play at being a spy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Amelia Earhart &amp; Oscar Wilde, Oscar Wilde/Guivres, Others to be added</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>At Her Majesty's Pleasure</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was Oscar’s first time in Paris. Oh he’d heard of it, so many times at Oxford, at laughing parties in ballrooms after lectures - he learned very early on to simply nod and smile, gather in as much information as possible so that he could safely join in at the relevant points. “Oh absolutely I know La Triumph,” he would say. “Their lobster is divine, don’t you think?” and the suspicion in the eyes of whatever lordling happened to be bashing his ears with his privilege would fade and he would be able to breathe easier for a minute, maybe two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was as beautiful as he’d been told. Clean and bright and full of wealth and Oscar itched to discover all its secrets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a few hours, to wander the streets, after checking in to his (modest) hotel close to the Seine. It was nothing like the muddy brown Thames, the houses along its banks rich and vibrant and full of life. This river did not spend most of its life in darkness. It was a bright silver ribbon that threaded through the city like the tail of a serpent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or a dragon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He passed Eiffel’s folly, and stopped, contemplating its ragged outline, taking in the movements of people amidst it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew enough about La Gourmand from his time training in London. It left a bad taste in his mouth, and he imagined it would rankle upon those in power, that they had to look upon it, rather than having it safely tucked away and deep underneath the surface as it was in London.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he noticed that no one else looked in its direction. Perhaps, he mused, like a spider on the wall, it was easier to ignore if one was always certain of its location.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An interesting thought, one that he filed away for use, should he return to London on assignment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not, at present, know what assignment he would be given. The anticipation of discovery, the knowledge that it was why he was here at all, led him back to his hotel before he had completely finished his explorations. </span>
</p><p>#</p><p>
  <span>How did one dress, to confront a dragon? Lady Starling had not given him any instructions to that purpose, but Oscar was cognizant of the fact that this evening he would be presented to one of the rulers of the world. A golden dragon - he thought to himself, as he set aside his most ostentatious waistcoat. A mistake, to wear that one. He wanted to be perceived as competent, not fawning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Muted colours, then, a deep grey suit and a crimson waistcoat, green cravat. Elegant, but with a touch of the flamboyant that had attracted the meritocratic agent at Magdalen in the first place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is an art to being noticed,” Professor Williams had said to him, that late night over brandy. “Something that I believe you are cultivating, Mr Wilde.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One needs to be noticed in order to succeed,” Oscar had replied, smiling at the man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And sometimes being noticed is a way for other things… not to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oscar smoothed his hand through his curls. Flashed a smile to himself in the mirror. Then descended.</span>
</p><p>#</p><p>
  <span>Naturally Guivres didn’t live in the city proper. She was simply too large. Logically Oscar knew this, knew that the dragons had their own lairs. Bola Smok in their tower above Prague. Apophis in his pyramid. Naga in their walled, ancient city, Apalala in her jungle temple. He could spare a grateful thought that he was not to be sworn into service by Apalala - the heat and humidity of Indonesia did play havoc with one’s hair, or so he’d been told.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The trip to the outskirts of Paris was uneventful, the cab - one of the new kind that ran without a horse although it did require a driver - was smooth and quiet and Oscar had time to look out at the rolling countryside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much the same as the countryside in England. Cleaner, more cultivated than his native Ireland, without its rich, green wildnerness. He could make out vineyards in the distance, and the white dots of sheep. The air was crisp and cold and the sky heart-achingly blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was twenty-four years of age, he had graduated with double firsts from Magdalen in Oxford, he was on the fast track to a career as a journalist and playwright, at the very start of his climb upwards into the social sphere of Europe and he was about to pledge loyalty to the Meritocrats. To become, as it were, a spy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oscar Wilde rested his chin on his hand as he watched the French countryside roll past, and smiled.</span>
</p><p>#</p><p>
  <span>Marseilles was enormous - an edifice of marble and decadence, surrounded by beautifully manicured gardens that would be crushed under one foot of the dragon who resided there. Oscar had seen paintings of it, in the Tate, but the sheer scale of it was humbling. He was led through double doors that were human height, the bustle of bureaucracy surrounding him like a familiar blanket, and through to the building behind where Guivres rested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the doorway were robes - gold edged and beautifully cut, to put on over his clothes, and Oscar frowned for a second before taking one. He’d not needed to take so much care with his appearance after all, it seemed. The wizard seated at the desk watched as he slipped one on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave any weapons here,” she said in a bored tone. “Do not attempt any magic while in Guivres’ presence - there are wards that will be activated if you try. She prefers deference at all times. Speak when spoken to, avoid eye contact, absolutely no touching.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oscar nodded. He’d been briefed on what to expect (aside from the clothing issue, which still rankled). Once the wizard was satisfied Oscar wasn’t armed (he did not, as a rule, carry weapons - of the firm belief that in his hands they would do himself more harm than any enemies he might encounter) and he stepped through the enormous doors into Guivres’ domain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Any room large enough to house a dragon would dwarf all the buildings Oscar had seen in his two decades of life, for that he had been prepared. He had not expected not to be able to see Guivres immediately, however. The light in the room was dim, and he wondered if dragons were like cats - nocturnal in the wild - preferring the dark and the shadows to the light. Lamps were situated impossibly high up on the walls, and he could make out five or six as they stretched out into what felt like infinite space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was hot, and he began to sweat under the robe. He caught himself before he prestidigitated it away and thought a few choice words in the privacy of his own head at the extra layers. Perhaps he should have stripped before donning the robe, propriety in front of the bored wizard be damned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Might have made the man’s day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of his thoughts, though, fell away when Guivres finally came into view.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been subconsciously aware of movement in the back of the room, out of his sight, ever since he’d been shown inside. Now that movement became purposeful, and as he began to comprehend the scale of it he felt an almost overwhelming urge to run. His brain had been trained by society and education and sometimes the harsh unkindness of his fellow humans, but it still remembered, as all brains did, a time when it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>food. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And it screamed at him to flee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing should be that big. Nothing </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>be that big and still be alive, still be moving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her head came into the light first. He had a moment to think, stupidly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shiny, </span>
  </em>
  <span>before the planes of her face, the gleaming, glorious, gorgeousness of her scales quite simply filled his mind, pushing everything else out and down and away until there was only </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>in all of her magnificence and beauty. One enormous blue eye, slit like a cat’s, fixed itself on him from an incomprehensible height as her foot came to rest on the floor in front of him, larger than the house he grew up in, each glittering claw bigger than his own six feet of height. He couldn’t take in all of her at once, each glance, each look only encompassed the smallest snippet of her glory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had not intended to kneel, but did so, partially out of deference, and partly to be able to cast his gaze to the ground rather than on her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oscar Wilde,” she said, and her voice was deep and reverberating and sank into his very bones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My lady,” he managed to breathe out, a voice barely above a whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a shifting in reality, a warping around him that felt like magic, although no magic he had ever encountered before, and then a finger, so warm as to be almost scalding, gently rested on his chin, tilting his face back upwards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was no longer a dragon. She was, instead, a woman. Tall. As tall as Oscar himself, possibly taller, with short shorn golden hair and dark brown skin that shifted golden in the light. She was achingly beautiful, still, but now at least to Oscar, she was comprehensible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have agreed to pledge your service to us,” she said. He swallowed and nodded. A smile touched her lips and he almost stammered his thanks for it, almost fell forward in gratitude that he could be the cause of her pleasure in some small, insignificant way. “Good,” she said, and her finger dropped from his face. He drew a shaking breath. “There is a ritual that all new agents must go through, a small thing, a mark that indicates to others of our kind and yours that you may act in the world with our authority.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oscar nodded. “I am aware, my lady,” he said, and his voice was more steady now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” she said again. “Follow me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did as she asked, following her as she walked to a door in the side of the room he had not noticed on first entry. Human sized, far plainer than any of the others he had seen on his way into the building. He felt the tingle of magic as they passed through, and realised it had been cloaked in illusion until she had drawn his attention to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This ritual, then, was a private one, not known to any other supplicants she might receive in this chamber.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oscar felt another small shiver of pleasure down his spine, that they were paying him such close attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside, there was a booth where he could remove his clothing. He did so with only the slightest tinge of embarrassment, and when he emerged Guivres was simply waiting next to a low table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lay on it, face up and the dragon pushed her fingers into his hair, stroking through it with all the delicacy and intimacy of a lover.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This will hurt,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not scream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Afterwards, he dressed and Guivres led him back out into the massive chamber. He wondered if she would return to her dragon form, but she did not, instead simply turning to face him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have questions,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wondered,” he said, hesitantly, licking his lips. “Considering my skill set, there is the possibility this -” he placed his hand over the divot of his hip, where Guivres mark was burned into his skin, the golden whorls and sweeps of her stylised dragon form clear against its pallor - “will be easily seen in the course of my work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile touched Guivres lips. “You are an illusionist, Oscar Wilde. And you will find my mark is not easily seen by those who are your enemies in any case. So long as your heart remains steadfast and true, your purpose clear, your allegiance firm, you will not be suspected.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oscar privately thought she underestimated the paranoia of practically everyone Oscar had ever had business dealings with, but he wasn’t about to repeat the past six months of his education to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were reasons the meritocrats had agents rather than going out into the world themselves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Also,” Oscar said. “What is your mission for me, my lady?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Guivres let out a pleasured sigh that tingled through Oscar from head to foot. “Ah,” she said. “Your purpose for us, Oscar Wilde, is to infiltrate the Harlequins.”</span>
</p>
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